


Watching The World Turn

by grump_ass



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, Nonbinary Lafayette, and dies every time, and georges is immortal and just along for the hell ride, and his boyfriend to stop dying, basically a reincarnation au, bigender georges, georges needs a hug, like philip is reborn over and over again, thanks neil for suffering with me, theodosia is a babe, trans philip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-05-18 02:57:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5895454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grump_ass/pseuds/grump_ass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Georges cannot die. No matter what, he cannot end this, cannot just die so he can be with Philip. Instead, he is forced to stay twenty, to watch Philip die over and over again. To watch his family die over and over again. To watch the world turn around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> are ya ready kiddos?? Brief mention of violence and blood

  
Georges was born in 1779. He was the child of the Marquis de Lafayette and his loving wife, Adrienne. They were revolutionaries, raising their child in a world of blood and battles, to the sound of beating drums and screaming voices demanding change.

What I mean to say, is that change was nothing new for Georges. He was born into it.

When his father decided to flee to America with his son in tow, Georges didn’t question it, only missed his mother in silence. They wrote letters to each other, but it was not the same. He felt sick as they made their way to America, sick from the tossing waves, sick for his mother, and sick for home.

He didn’t know that he would meet Philip. When he did, he was thrown off balance, off kilter by him and his perfection. Everything about him made sense; even the things that didn’t. He was told not to question what happened to Philippa, or why Philip looked girlish even for a twelve year old boy. None of that ever bothered him, when all he could see was Philip, splendid, wonderful Philip.

They really shouldn’t have even become friends; their fathers, once friends, now despised each other. But friendship finds a way, and so did Philip and Georges. Georges didn’t question the things that he should have.

The blood that stained Philip’s sheets one night, his hiss of pain when Georges accidentally bumped into his chest, his mother starting to call him Philippa but correcting herself and apologizing.

He put those things aside, focused only on the perfectness. That was all that mattered to him. Everything else was insignificant and a given when it came to Philip.

* * *

  
_“Georges,” he moaned, and Georges moaned in turn against him. A hand ran through his hair and tugged it gently as Philip came against him with a shudder and whine, hips still flicking against Georges' mouth. He collapsed back into the bed while Georges finished cleaning him._

_Georges sat up on his elbows and stared at him. Philip grinned at him, hand moving from Georges’ hair, and he gestured for Georges to come closer. When he did, Philip wrapped his arms around his neck._

_“Kiss me.” He whispered, and Georges complied, pulling the blankets up around their hips as they pressed their lips gently to each other's. Georges relaxed into him, and held him closer, shifting so he could mumble into his neck._

_“What was that.”_

_“I love you.”_

_A giggle, then a gentle tugging at his hair._

_“I love you too.”_

* * *

Georges pulled Philip into their room and gripped him by his shoulders.

“Philip.”

“Georges, please, it is just a duel-”

“Please, Philip, I will not be here to keep an eye out for you,” he was going to France for several months, Philip was going to meet him. “What if you are shot?”

“My father knows a doctor that is aware of my… biology.” Philip fell quiet at this, suddenly a little unsure.

“Philip, what if Eacker finds out? What if word gets out about you? What if they think you’re a sodomite? Or they lock you in an asylum unless you decide to be a woman?”

Philip glared. “I didn’t choose to be this, Georges-”

“Amour, you know that is not what I said.” Georges let his hands fall down to hold Philip’s, and when Philip did not jerk away, Georges pulled him into his chest and held him close. Philip relaxed slightly, reaching to hold him back.

“Please.”

Philip shook his head. “You heard the shit he said about my father.”

Georges had; Philip had come into their room in a blistering fury, reciting every word that Eacker spoke. It was in part slander, but also true. While Georges would never tell Philip this, he did not care much for Alexander; the man was abrasive and, after the Reynolds Pamphlet, was exposed as an adulterer.

“Please, let it go.”

Philip sighed tiredly. “Georges…”

Georges slumped, but kept him close. He then stood back, cupped his chin, and pulled him close to kiss him. Philip exhaled softly, eyes shutting and anger dissolving. Georges let Philip’s head fall back, and whispered “Just stay alive until I return, please.”

Philip reached up to hold his face. “I will,” he promised, eyes gazing up at Georges as he leaned back to him to capture his lips against his own.

* * *

 

He was ready to leave when the messenger ran up and banged on his door. Georges opened it.

“Yes?”

“Are you Georges Lafayette,” the boy sputtered, chest heaving.

“I am,” Georges answered carefully.

“I was told to get you and take you to the hospital by the Hudson,” the boy managed, grabbing his sleeve and tugging him. Georges’ blood ran cold.

“Why?”

“Your friend, he is bleeding out. He said he told you about the duel, and to find you for him.”

Georges felt the life running out from him, and his knees felt weak. The boy pulled harder.

“Sir, please, we must hurry.”

Georges stumbled after him, stopping only to find a carriage and help the boy up before speeding off and to the Hudson, where they took a boat across and ran into the city.

The boy left Georges to stumble up the steps of the hospital and into the main room.

“Where is Philip? Where is he,” he shouted, aware that he was barely coherent. The doctor waiting by the back hurried to him.

“Georges Lafayette?”

“Yes, where is Philip?”

“Follow me, he is just back here.”

“Have you treated him yet?”

“I was the first one on him, now all we can do is wait.”

“Can I see him?”

“Yes, of course.” Georges did not wait for him to point in what direction he was to go, just stormed ahead and threw open doors like a madman until he found Philip.

He laid still on the operation table, moaning softly, hand on his stomach, blood seeping through his fingers. His chest lay unbound, and his face glistened with sweat from exertion.

“Philip,” Georges whispered, walking over and kneeling by him. “Oh, God, no.”

Philip took a labored breath and forced a smile. “I am sorry. You are going to miss your boat.”

“Never mind that, Philip. All that matters that I am here with you now.”

Philip managed a raspy laugh that seemed to grate against his throat. He extended his free hand to Georges, who took it in his own and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

“That is good,” Philip whispered. He frowned at Georges then, and shook his hand away to dab the tears on his cheeks.

“Georges, don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry.”

Philip’s fingers uncurled so he could hold Georges’ cheek in his palm. “There is nothing to apologize for.”

“I should have stopped you.”

“You have always reminded me of my agency,” Philip said, “Do you regret that? Encouraging independence.”

Georges grimaced. “Don’t say that, you have always been as stubborn as a mule. I never had to teach you a sense of independence.”

Philip laughed weakly and Georges pulled his hand away to kiss his knuckles once more.

The door flew open, and Georges stepped aside to let Alexander run to Philip.

* * *

  
“Georges,” Eliza whispered, shaking him awake. “Philip wants you.”

Georges sat up immediately, and Eliza pressed a gentle hand on his shoulder, keeping it there until he stood and walked towards Philip’s room.

His father was still there, gripping his hand and watching Philip with such tired despair that Georges allowed himself to feel a wince of sympathy for him. He looked to Georges then.

“He wants to be with you.”

His word choice was interesting, but Georges decided he would analyze it at a more opportune time. He watched Alexander press a kiss to Philip’s hairline and leave before walking over to Philip’s bedside. Philip watched him through half lidded eyes.

“What is it, cher?”

Philip exhaled softly. “I just want to be with you.”

Georges smiled slightly, stomach turning. “I will stay here then.”

“Please,” Philip whispered, turning into the hand Georges had placed against his cheek.

They sat in silence, Georges running a thumb along Philip’s cheekbone.

Finally, Philip spoke.

“Do you love me?”

“Yes,” Georges said immediately. “I am desperately in love with you, Philip.”

“When did you decide that,” He wondered aloud.

“It just happened,” Georges whispered. “You just became more and more special to me until one day it occurred to me that I could not even breathe without you by my side.”

“I wish you could,” Philip whispered, “I love you so much, Georges, I don’t want you to be upset when I am gone.”

“Philip, please.”

“I just want to stay with you, Georges,” Philip continued, tears running down his cheeks.

Georges realized he was crying then. “Philip,” he whispered hoarsely.

“I want to stay with you, Georges,” he repeated. “I didn’t have enough time with you, it isn’t fair.” He sounded like a petulant child now. “I don’t want to die.”

“Philip, I am so sorry,” Georges managed, reaching out to hold his other cheek.

“I don’t want to die, Georges,” Philip sobbed, grabbing onto his hand. “I’m scared, Georges, I don’t want to die.”

“I know, I know,” Georges whispered, biting back his own tears. The boy under his fingertips was too young to die like this, bleeding out on a table, vulnerable and afraid.

“Georges I want to stay with you.”

“I know,” he managed.

Philip cried, whimpering and sniffling, before managing a hoarse, “Distract me.”

“Of course, cher. How?”

“Anything. I just don’t want to think about…”

Georges nodded, and began humming softly. Philip watched him, and began counting softly under his breathe and through his tears.

“Why do I have to die, Georges?” Philip whispered.

“I don’t know, amour.”

“It isn’t fair.”

“I know, love.”

“I want to stay with you.”

“I know.”

“I want to sleep with you in our bed. I want to feed the ducks across the street- no one is going to feed them now, Georges.”

“I will feed them.”

“I just want to stay here. I still had so much to do.”

“I agree.”

“I want to stay with you, Georges.”

“I want you to stay, too.”

“Oh God,” he whispered, weak. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave you or my mother or father or Theodosia or Angelica.”

“I know.”

“I just want to go home.”

“I know.”

“Please, wait for me, Georges.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Georges whispered back.

“It seems that wishful thinking will not keep me here,” Philip said, “Don't cry, you will see me again.”

“Philip, please-” But Philip cut him off once more, and Georges was silenced, listening closely and treating every word like it was; Philip’s last.

“Wait for me.”

Georges took a shuddering breath, and whispered, “Philip, you will be fine-”

“Wait for me, Georges,” he said, adamant.

Georges looked into his eyes and saw that the usual flame in it was extinguished, now sad and scared and aware that he was not the immortal he always carried himself to be. Philip was aware that this was his end.

“I will,” Georges promised, squeezing his hand. “I will always wait for you.”

He said it as firmly as he could, as truthfully as humanly possible. He would do anything for Philip, and he would not regret it for even a millisecond. He knew in his heart that he would wait years, lifetimes, eternities, for Philip.

“Until you are not afraid to die, Philip, I will wait for you. I will always be there for you.”

Philip wept softly, but gestured him close, pressing a deep kiss to his lips and whispering, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he whispered back, gripping him tighter.

And that was that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!

  
The life drained from him like the sun setting at the end of the day, and the morning shining through the window gave his pale face a warmth the dead did not normally have; even in death, Philip seemed bright.

When his grip on Georges’ fingers limpened, Georges could not speak, just stared dumbly at Philip’s sagging body. Something dark began to settle on his mind, and he attempted to shake Philip gently back into life. This did not work, of course, and Georges was left sitting and holding a dead boy’s hand as Philip’s mother wept softly and his father stroked Philip’s hair and whispered, “My son,” over and over.

Georges did not leave his home except for the funeral. Afterwards he was invited back to the Hamilton’s home for dinner with Philip’s family, which he accepted. As soon as possible, though, he left with a hug for Eliza and Angelica, and a curt nod to Alexander. He then set out into the crispening night, and let tears silently fall as he walked to his apartment like a man possessed; which, he was, if the thing possessing him were grief.

When he arrived at his apartment, it was almost morning. He had gotten sidetracked along the way, watching the night fading to day, and now as he neared his front door, he looked out onto the awakening city. The laborers left their homes, sagging under the weight of the long day ahead of them. The birds were chirping slightly, their near silence almost considerate, as if they were aware that much of the city was still fast asleep. The rising sun cast a glow on the gray and red and pink buildings and streets.

Georges felt that this sight should have been beautiful to him, but the most he could muster was to enter his apartment, shed his shoes and coat, and fall into his bed to cry and sleep.

He stayed in bed for several days. He varied from heaving sobs to being devoid of tears, a shell of his usual self. The only thing he could do consistently was breathe in the smell of one of Philip’s cravats and look out the window.

On the fifth day of his perpetual depression, his landlord slipped a bundle of letters into his mail slot. Georges forced himself up so he could shuffle to the letters and pick them up.

There were two letters. One from Eliza, and one from Theodosia.

He read Theo’s first.

_My dearest Georges,_

_I am filled with unimaginable sorrow at Philip’s untimely demise. I am certain that you are all too aware of this, and I wish to express my sincere condolences; I know how greatly you care ~~d~~ for him._

_I am coming to visit you as soon as possible. I am currently wrapped up in some unavoidable conflict, social things and the like, that not even such an earth shattering tragedy as Philip’s death can give me reprieve from. But, you can expect me there within a week of this letter’s creation._

_I cannot begin to imagine how you are coping with this. But please know that, as your friend, whatever state I shall find you in upon my arrival, I will be at your side. I am here for you, my darling Georges._

_Theodosia Burr Jr._

He exhaled, managing his first smile in several days. Theo was coming. Judging by the date, she would be at his side in, at most, several days. Georges felt himself already breathing easier.

He gently placed her letter aside, and reached for Eliza’s.

_Dear Georges,_

_Words cannot describe my gratitude towards you for taking care of Philip. I sincerely hope that you do not feel anything like guilt or responsibility for his death; I am certain you did everything in your power to stop him. That the only reason he is gone is because he convinced you that he would be safe. He had always had a way of assuring people that he was worthy of their faith and devotion, and that they could trust him to fend for himself and follow every instinct that made its way into his mind._

_The most that a mother could ever hope for is that, should her child choose to give their heart to someone, that person will respect and handle that heart carefully, and will try to see inside of it. That their love for her child is so strong that they can see into her child’s mind and heart, and that they only wish to make everything swirling inside of them clear to themselves._

_Eliza Schuyler_

He would need to reply to her soon. He could not imagine her pain. A mother should not have to watch her child die. He placed her letter aside.

He waited for Alexander to send some long winded letter about how much he was sure Philip meant to them both, but it never arrived.

* * *

  
Theodosia arrived two days later. Georges managed to bathe and change into new clothes before her arrival. However, she still had to pick his lock open to get inside.

“It is unladylike to pick open a door, Theo,” he whispered weakly, but she threw herself onto him, holding him close.

“Georges, darling, are you alright?” she asked. “Have you been eating? Bathing? Drinking water?” She looked to the mess of papers around his bed. “Or are you too bent in your misery to do anything besides write poetry.”

“Do not tease me, Theodosia. And they are not poems, Philip was the poet, not me.”

“Darling, I would never. I am sorry you thought I was teasing you,” she cooed, petting his hair. “But that does not answer my question. Have you bathed? Eaten? Or drank?”

“I bathed for you,” he managed, and Theo laughed softly.

“I appreciate your gesture. But that means that I must make you your meals while I am here. I will not allow you to starve.”

Before he could protest, she was scooping up his papers and placing them on his desk. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, then scurried back to the kitchen to begin assessing its contents so that she could make him food.

When she finished dinner, potatoes and carrots, with a fresh loaf of bread Georges was certain he had not made, she pulled him up and led him to the table to eat.

When he finished his plate, she let him sit in an armchair as she tidied up his home, humming softly as she rearranged books and journals and papers.

As night fell she returned to the parlor. He was staring straight ahead, and did not notice her presence until she gently shook him.

“Georges, you still need to sort through Philip’s things.”

Georges’ heart sank, but he managed to nod, rising up and following her back into his bedroom. It was spotless except for the piles of Philip’s things on the bed. Theodosia looked at the pile, frowning.

“Didn’t he live at his parent’s estate?” she asked, and Georges nodded. “Why are so many of his things here, then?”

“He liked staying at my home. It just became practical for all of his favorite belongings to stay here.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he gingerly shifted through his things. The pile consisted of journals and clothing and trinkets, scraps of cloth and hand sewn toys. Georges reached out for a pressed leaf at the top of the stack, turning it over in his hands.

“What do you want to do with all of this?” Theodosia asked.

“To keep as much of it as possible,” Georges stated. “I can sort through it all.”

“Can you clear off your bed in that time?”

“If I hurry.” He began taking out the first bits of clothing that he saw and dumping them onto the floor. Theodosia laughed softly.

“Would you like help?”

“No, but company would be appreciated.”

Theodosia looked around. “The only spot to sit is on the bed,” she said, pointing to a small empty strip of mattress.

“Sit there, then.”

“I can’t sit on a man’s bed.”

“Why? We both know that your virtue is in no danger around me.”

Theodosia laughed at that and sat down, watching him sort efficiently through Philip’s things. Over the course of two years, Philip had amassed several journals, a half finished one, five sketchbooks, twenty shirts, ten cravats and pairs of trousers, two pairs of shoes, and countless pieces of trash and treasures that he had hoarded and stowed in his pockets.

He had also left many of his books with Georges, crammed into his bookshelves next to his own books and journals. Georges stacked Philip’s sketchbooks and journals, and placed them on top of his wardrobe.

Theodosia sifted through the clothing and bits of junk. “I think you should put the pressed things in an album, they are beautiful. Philip probably took a lot of time to press them.”

“He did,” Georges agreed, picking the leaf back up.

“We can buy one tomorrow. When we go grocery shopping.”

“Alright.”

“You should write to Eliza, ask what she wants back of Philip’s.”

“I will.”

Theodosia frowned, and reached out to squeeze his hand. “Georges, it will be alright.”

Georges shook his head. “No it won’t. He isn’t coming back, Theo.”

“Maybe not. But you will see him again.”

“Perhaps.”

“I swear that you will.”

Georges said nothing, only squeezed her hand back, looking out at what was left of his lover.

Theodosia touched his cheek. “Let’s rest, Georges. You’ve had a long day.”

“All I have done is cried and gone through Philip’s things.”

  
“That constitutes for a long day, love.”

Georges let her push him back and pull the blankets over his body. He pulled the covers aside and gestured for her to join him.

“Georges.”

“Please, Theo, I promise I won’t try anything.”

She laughed. “I don’t doubt that.”

He smiled softly back at her, and she sighed indulgently before hurrying off to change into a nightgown and joining him. She was warm against him, and pulled Georges close so he could curl around her and rest his head against her chest and listen to the steady beat of her heart. She stroked his hair gently, running her fingers through so her nails could scratch at his scalp.

They sat in the dark for several minutes until Georges whispered, “I didn’t want him to die, Theo.”

“I know you didn’t, Georges, nobody did,” she whispered back, rubbing his back. She was shorter than him, almost comically so, and yet he remained curled into a tight ball against the curve of her body and let her stroke him softly.

“Did you know? He told me he was going to duel. He wouldn’t listen to me.”

“That does sound like Philip.”

“He didn’t care what I had to say. He just wanted to defend his father. And against who? Eacker? Someone he had heard of a handful of times before in passing, at most?”

Theodosia sighed sadly. “He was always so stubborn, that boy.”

“He was. Why didn’t he listen. Why couldn’t he be satisfied with the quiet life we were leading together.”

Theodosia was quiet for a moment before saying, “Perhaps my dearest Georges, Philip was trying to preserve some semblance of a private life. Eacker’s speech did redirect some unwanted attention onto the family. Someone would have eventually wondered aloud why the Hamilton’s son spent so much time with a male companion.”

Georges whispered back, “He said it was about his father. Philip always said what he meant.”

Theodosia did not object, only paused before pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead and whispering, “That is true.”

* * *

 

Eliza let Georges keep Philip’s things. She claimed that, if Philip had not wanted Georges to have his things, he would not have left his most personal items with Georges. Eventually Eliza sent up even more journals and sketchbooks, even an album filled with pressed flowers and leaves.

Georges devoured the entries and poems and drawings Philip had left over the course of several days. Theodosia stayed the entire time, petting his hair and cradling him as he read.

Letters and pages and sketches and political cartoons littered the floor. Georges let words pass through his fingers. He read the entries, each of them an in depth view of what Philip had thought.

_How Georges smelt, how he sounded against his stomach when pressing kisses to it._

_How grass felt when it scratched gently through his shirt at his back._

_Theodosia’s laugh, tinkling like bells shaken by a young heiress._

_What Georges said to him, how many times he had told him that he loved him. Georges curled against him as he tried easing his own anxiety by breathing him in._

_Angelica’s small fingers curled around his one. Her tiny curls being pulled into delicate and intricate braids._

_How beautiful Georges sounded when he moaned into his mouth, and how gentle Georges was when the realities of the world seemed too much and only the soft touch of Georges’ hands on Philip’s shaking frame could put him at ease._

_Life, Georges. Family. Georges. Everything Else. Georges._

* * *

  
Theodosia left. She couldn’t stay forever.

Georges went back to France, Philips journals stacked neatly on his desk.

He paid rent through the year, and planned to never return.

* * *

  
Georges began realizing what was happening when the jump didn’t kill him.

It should have. The churning water beneath him was his hopeful portal into another life. Whichever one Philip was in, really. He felt a twinge of guilt for breaking his promise, to wait. For once in his life, however, he could not bring himself to keep his promise or to wait.

However, when he met the river, he did not die. Just felt an eruption of pain and the bite of ice cold water. In moments he was fine, and flopped back onto land when he couldn’t drown.

He found a gun next and shot himself in the stomach, against the wall of his home in Paris.

The hole sealed in a matter of seconds.

He shot himself in the throat; this healed too.

The same thing happened with his head and chest.

He shot himself experimentally in the knee, and while it hurt as much as the first four shots, the wound still healed almost immediately.

He sat against the wall crying for several hours, eventually rising shakily and looking in the mirror hanging on the wall. Nothing in his countenance had changed, he still looked positively drained and pale. The only sign of any disturbance was a pink scar on his forehead and throat.

Georges felt himself begin to shake, and could not bring himself to calm down. He held himself in his arms, staring at the scars from the bullets. In the moment that he became aware of his overwhelming immortality, the most he could bring himself to do was shut his eyes against the soreness in him and wail.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back?? (hint; it's philip)
> 
> also; for a good chunk of this fanfiction, Lafayette will be referred to using he/him pronouns; however, their preferred pronouns are they/them. This is not intentional misgendering on Georges' part, and it is also not an excuse for misgendering Lafayette in the comments.

When he was younger, his father had taken him to America. They had taken a ship, as that was the only way to cross the ocean between France and America. Georges had hung on his father the entire time, terrified of falling into the water around them. His father had only chuckled and let him, conducting his business around his son as he did so. By the end of their voyage, Georges had grown less afraid of the water. He even let his father hoist him up to look out as their ship neared New York.

They stayed with the Hamiltons, which was an awkward ordeal considering Alexander had drafted the statement of neutrality not long before that. Georges had met Philip on that trip, though, and he could not consider that ever being awkward or an ordeal. When he got back on the boat, he was filled with indescribable joy, looking out at the lapping waves and smiling.

Sloshing around in knee deep water with an abandoned child in his arms, however, he was reminded of his fear of the water, and why it existed at all. The ocean was terrifying. Nobody had even found its end, but at the rate they were sinking at, chances were that the ship would.

The lifeboats were being filled as quickly as possible, and he shoved the child into the lifeboat. But, when he turned to walk back the way he’d come, he was stopped.

“Get on the boat, sir,” said the crewman.

“There are others; women, old people, children.”

“And we will get to them; the boat, sir.”

When Georges attempted to shove past, the crewman grabbed him, dragging Georges through the water to the lifeboat. He went limp, digging his feet into the ground.

“There are others I promised to come back for.”

“Sir, the lifeboats are leaving.”

“I can swim,” Georges protested, but it was too late. He was forced into the descending lifeboat. By the time he regained his footing and stood, it was too far away for him to do anything. Instead, he watched as people hurled themselves from the sinking ship.

* * *

 

It occurred to him that, eventually, his father would realize he was not aging as he should. He let the shipwreck name him as one of the dead, not bothering to write his father and reassure him that he was fine, that death had not claimed another person close to him. For a while, he received panicked, tear stained letters, dripping with anxiety and hope. When they went unanswered for several months, however, he received no more.

Theodosia did not verbally question this or why he was not receiving any more letters. She let him be, instead going about her business. Georges visited her often, spending time in her parlor. She conducted her business around her husband. She held Georges, reassured him that his suffering would not be long. That he would see Philip again, eventually.

She was next; when she went to join her father in France, she disappeared. They could not find her boat. Georges gave up praying she would be found.

The worst part of his immortality, Georges decided, was the forced loneliness. He had always enjoyed his alone time, but that did not mean he wanted to be an outcast. At least as a mortal, when his anxiety became overwhelming, he could write to his mother or hold Philip. Now, the only reprieve he had was the embrace of the quilt on his bed.

He wrote pieces for newspapers. He went under pseudonyms, and over the next sixty years, his pieces gained more and more acclaim. By then, anyone who would recognize him was long dead, and he allowed himself to re enter civilization.

When the war was started, Georges was not surprised. The tension building up was one he recognized. He eventually found himself signing up for the effort, and ten months later was a private on the front lines, serving also as a field medic.

He was in his tent, waiting for his tent mate. He listened to the clatter around him, feeding off of the chatter and clatter of the camp around him. The soft tap on the canvas tent sent his head up, and he shouted, “Come in.”

The young man outside opened the tent and crouched in. When Georges saw the man’s face, the friendly smile on his lips died.

“It’s good to meet you,” Philip said with a grin, extending his hand. “Philip Smith! Georges LeMonte, right?”

Georges nodded, eyes never wavering from Philip’s. He took Philip’s hand, and Philip shook it, his palm soft against Georges’.

“I read some of your stuff. Let me tell you, I’m a real fan of your work!”

“Thank you,” Georges whispered, not looking away. Why was he here?

Philip relaxed back, dropping Georges’ hand and looking over to the empty side of the tent. “I s’pose this is my side!”

Georges managed another numb nod, shutting the book in his hands. It couldn’t be Philip. Last he had seen Philip he was-

But if he was dead, then who was he staring at now? Not a ghost, to be sure; a spirit would not feel so solid beneath his touch, would not be so warm. And if Philip had the same affliction as him, then he would not have hidden himself from Georges or pretended to be meeting someone new like he was now. This was Philip, was the same freckled cheeks and blazing eyes and broad smile. Everything about him was stunningly real and familiar, and Georges was helpless under his stare.

“Yes,” Georges whispered.

Philip’s smile widened, and he began undoing his bed roll, letting Georges look back to his book and try to ease his thumping heart.

He was back. As young and real as he had been in 1800.

After he had smoothed out his bedroll, he looked back to Georges, who forced his eyes to remain his book.

“Have we met before?” Philip asked, and Georges looked over to him.

“I’m sorry?” Georges asked, faking nonchalance.

“You just seem so familiar,” Philip pressed, “I feel like I have met you before. That we have been close, in fact.”

George swallowed thickly. Was it possible that Philip did remember him?

“I-” Georges began, but Philip waved him off.

“No, no,” he laughed, almost nervously, “I do not recognize you. After all, you did not recognize me.”

Georges ignored the ache in his chest; of course Philip wouldn’t recognize him. If he was still in the body he had died in, then his question would have been only cautionary.

Philip began to speak, “I mean, I did think I had seen you before.”

“But you haven’t.”

“No…”

Georges managed a smile. “Then there is no reason for us to carry on with this. That side of the tent is yours.”

Philip swallowed, but nodded, turning to unroll his bedding.

* * *

Philip followed Georges, watching the camp with intense fascination.

“What’s got you so excited, mon ami? Have you never seen other people,” Georges teased, hoping he sounded nonchalant.

“I’ve never seen so many people working together, is all,” Philip said. “I’ve never seen an all black battalion before.”

Georges wanted to point out that this was not the first black battalion the union had seen, but he couldn’t disagree that the sight before them was impressive. The hundreds of men around them were all black, all in harmony with a similar cause; to fight.

“I don’t know how I feel about the lieutenant colonel being white, though.”

“I haven’t seen him yet.”

“Neither have I. He’s probably in his tent, pretending he doesn’t have to lead a battalion of free black men.”

Considering that most people, even in the North, held less-than favorable opinions of black people, this wasn’t surprising. Their leader, a lieutenant colonel named George Eirnstien, rarely walked amongst his recruits, and while this could have been because he was planning and strategizing battles, Georges guessed it was because of his likely superiority complex that he didn’t fraternize with the soldiers.

As they delved deeper into the camp, a tent flap opened, and a man exited, standing up straight and looking over to them.

Georges’ eyes locked on the patches on his clothing , indicating his rank, and the fact that he had a notable rank at all, for everyone to see.

“I think that’s Eirnstein,” Georges whispered, straightening and looking away.

Philip, however, was not as subtle, and locked eyes with Eirnstein, staring at him wide eyed curiosity.

“Philip,” Georges warned, but Philip looked him straight on. Eirnstein held his stare, studying him for a moment before continuing his walk.

Georges let out a breath, and Philip stared after Eirnstein for only a moment longer before continuing their trek across camp.

After dinner that night, Philip and Georges went back to their tent. Philip asked Georges to let him ‘do something’ in private first, Georges suspected this was unwrapping his chest, then let him in several minutes later. He was in his bed blankets around his shoulders and his back to Georges. Georges crept across the tent and got in bed.

It felt odd to have Philip sleep across a tent from him; so much so that, at first, Georges was surprised when he crawled into his own bedroll that night instead of Georges’. Georges remembered that Philip did not recognize him.

“Good night, Georges.”

“Good night, Philip.”

Georges watched Philip’s body sag with unconsciousness, and listened to his soft breaths, ignoring the hurried thumping in his chest. He tried to shut his eyes against this worry, to ignore that his dead lover now slept an arm’s length away from him.

It was difficult, but soon he found sleep, drifting away as the wind blew over the sea of tents around them.

* * *

They got back from a gruesome battle, barely eking out a victory. The sun was unrelenting, and every man was exhausted. Many were sick where they stood. Others were dragging their dying friends to the infirmary tent. Georges spent several hours after wrapping up arms and applying cold cloths and preparing corpses to be sent home, working through his own burning flesh and sick stomach. When he arrived back at his tent, his feet dragging with exhaustion.

Philip looked up from where he was fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. His hands stopped, and Georges could see the edge of bandages around his chest.

“Georges,” Philip said, brows furrowing, unaware Georges could see his bandages, “You look like death.”

“It’s been a long afternoon.”

“Lay down, please, let me get you water, or whiskey.”

“Philip-”

“Water? Or whiskey?”

“...Water.”

Philip took his canteen and disappeared. Georges laid down onto the cot, and Philip returned several minutes later with a full canteen. He sat next to Georges and held the canteen to Georges’ lips.

“Drink,” he urged him, tilting the canteen so water could trickle past his lips.

“I’m fine,” he objected weakly, but he let himself drink.

“You are not fine,” Philip objected, “Your face is pale and you’re sweating. I think you have the same thing as everyone else in camp.”

“Perhaps I do.”

“You need to rest. And water.” Philip began to stand. “I’ll go get the doctor.”

“No,” Georges whispered, not thinking as his hand shot out and grabbed Philip’s, “Stay.”

Philip froze mid-rise, staring at Georges, and then the hand around his. He coughed slightly, hesitating for a moment.

“You need a doctor-”

“I just need you to stay.”

“Georges,” he protested, but the objection died on his lips as he lowered himself back down to Georges’ side.

“Stay with me,” Georges repeated.

“I will,” Philip whispered, letting Georges’ fingers curl tighter around his hand.

Georges exhaled slightly, and Philip returned the rim of the canteen to his lips.

“Drink,” he whispered softly. Georges did so, with no objections this time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me so long, aaagh. I took way too long, it's my bad. 
> 
> You can find me at http://grump-ass.tumblr.com/  
> or http://philips-georges.tumblr.com/


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers-who-waited-a-month-and-a-half-for-an-update, what to say to you; sorry, lol
> 
> tw: vomit mention and disease, some battle scenes

Philip’s distaste for Eirnestein only grew as the days passed. He seemed to catalog his doings, what he did and who he talked to and even what he ate. It was as if Philip suspected some insidious purpose in Eirnstein. Georges found his suspicion slightly humorous.

“What are you looking at the colonel for, mon petit ami? Are you waiting for him to sprout wings and fly away, or to burst into flames where he stands?”

“Spoken like a true writer,” Philip said, smiling over at Georges and shifting the gun in his hands as they treked through the low valley, “And, no, I do not believe that our beloved colonel is secretly some creature of smoke and fire.”

“And I am the writer here. Then why do you stare?”

Philip’s smile faltered, expression hardening as he looked to the front of the battalion. His eyes locked on Eirnstein.

“I don’t trust him,” Philip whispered, “Something about him is... concerning.”

“How do you mean?”

“I feel like he would shoot me without so much as a warning.”

Georges looked to Eirnstein. He couldn’t seem to hear them, so Georges allowed himself to whisper back, “I’m sure he wouldn’t do that.”

Philip mumbled something softly, but he did not seem convinced. A crack tore through the air, and a man several paces ahead crumpled to the earth.

“Fall back,” Eirnstein shouted, “Head for the trees, aim from there.”

Philip turned back with the others and ran, Georges following close behind. He had to remind himself to keep an eye out for bullets; they couldn’t kill him, but it would be suspicious if one got him in the head and he acted as if nothing had happened.

They reached the trees, firing into the gunfire as precisely as possible. A bullet bit the ground beside him, kicking up dust that Georges did not have the time to beat away. Philip continued firing around the tree, seemingly unaware of the men dropping besides him. A boom sounded off, and Georges saw a cannon ball turn a nearby tree into splinters. Without a moment of hesitation, he took hold of Philip’s arm and pulled him behind the tree as wood chips sliced through the air and into the men around them.

“Thank you,” Philip said, staring at the men around them that now screamed and tried to pull bits of wood from their flesh.

“Be careful, these trees are old and fragile, the slightest break will make their bark shrapnel.”

Philip cursed. “This is absolute madness. Half of us are young men, but they’re tearing us to shreds.”

“This is a war, Philip,” Georges answered, reloading his gun, “They don’t care who they kill so long as they get what they want.”

“How many of those men do you think really want to be there,” Philip asked, firing into the crowd of Confederate soldiers. “I can see several people in there that could- should be on our side.”

“That’s why we are fighting. For them to be free,” but even as Georges said this, the words felt soft and watered down in his mouth, powerless and with no real magnitude.

Philip perfectly stated why he felt his way when he replied with, “It’s barely any better for us on our end, Georges.”

He said this sadly, looking to Georges with woeful eyes. For a moment, Georges forgot that in this life they weren’t in love; they were under fire in a field of dying men who’s names would never be remembered. And while Georges did not mind letting history forget him, because it had done so long ago, he couldn’t imagine a worse fate for men who died for something they believed in.

* * *

 

They got back to camp at dusk. Georges attempted to wash his face in a river, tugging his fingers through his hair before twisting strands into a braid, like how his mother had worn her hair.

When he got back to his tent, Philip was shaking, trying to lay down but unable to do so without wincing.

“Philip?” Georges asked, and Philip looked at him. “Are you alright?”

“My sides hurt,” Philip said, gently holding his ribs. Georges could see the edge of bandages peering over the collar of his shirt.

“I can help.”

Philip shook his head. “Don’t.”

“Philip,” Georges said, softly shifting him to face him.

“It’s nothing.”

“You probably broke a rib, it’s not nothing.” He began to reach for the buttons on Philip’s shirt, but his hands were slapped away. He had forgotten, once again, that Philip did not know that he knew.

“Philip, it’s okay. Just let me help.”

“I don’t need help.” The look in his eyes, though, was not one of stubborn defiance, it was one of terror at the idea of being found out.

Georges almost forgot that this was and wasn’t Philip, that he couldn’t hold his hand and press his cheek to calm him. He moved to take his face in hand, but stopped himself.

“Philip, I know why you won’t show me. I won’t breathe a word of it.”

Philip stiffened, looking at him, fear hardening, making his jaw and his shoulders tense up. His arms screwed tighter over his chest, blocking the buttons from Georges.

Georges sighed. Stubbornness was evidently not easily shaken from Philip’s soul, regardless of how many years and lives it led.

“Fine. But if you want to let me help you, come to me instead of slinking off somewhere.”

Philip hesitated there, hands faltering slightly before he exhaled shakily and let his hands move to his shirt and unbuttoned it.

It was progress. Georges backed away. “You just need to remove your bandages, and then you can put your shirt back on.” That was how he had gotten Philip to let him check his body before.

Philip nodded, and mumbled, “Turn around.” Georges did, and kept his back to Philip until he told him he could look back.

“Put your arms down, please,” Georges instructed, and Philip reluctantly moved his hands from his chest. Georges kept his eyes pointedly away from his chest, instead pressing gentle fingers to his side. As he moved closer to the broken rib, Philip grew more and more visibly uncomfortable. He yelped when Georges pressed his definitely broken rib.

“Are you okay?”

“It feels like my side is being stabbed,” Philip answered, and Georges sighed, pulling his hands away.

“It’s because you wear those damned bandages for hours on end. You should have told me sooner, I could have helped you.”

“How?” Philip challenged.

“I have experience in such matters.”

Philip perked up at this. “You do? Are you…” He turned so he could look at Georges, eyes drifting to his chest, searching for bumps and curves in the fabric.

“No, I’m not like you, mon petit ami. I know about things like this, though.”

“How?”

“I… knew somebody like you, once.”

Philip’s face fell slightly. “You ‘knew’ somebody? Is he still… alive?”

“No,” Georges said.

“Were you close?”

“Extremely.”

Philip was quiet, then whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. It was a while ago.”

Philip looked away, attempting to smooth where the shirt fell around his chest. Georges sat down on his own cot, readjusting his braid.

Philip spoke again.

“I like your hair.”

“Thank you. My mother did her hair like this.”

“Did she do your hair like that?”

“I never asked. It isn’t a very masculine hair style.”

Philip frowned at him. “Georges, it’s hair.”

“It’s a hairstyle worn by women. And I’m. Not.” Saying so left a bad taste in Georges’ mouth, but he ignored it.

Philip’s mouth screwed up, a familiar gesture from when he had been a child with Georges, and he repeated, “Georges, it is only hair.”

Georges sighed and shook his head.

“You should wear your hair like that more,” Philip pressed.

“I’m sure our battalion will love the view of my braid swinging around mid battle.”

“I would.”

Georges went quiet at that, and Philip swallowed thickly, staring wide eyed at Georges.

“Thank you, Philip.”

* * *

 

There was a disease amongst them. It first pronounced itself in one man, making him wretch and sweat for long hours. Eventually, his tent mate caught it. The illness spread further into the battalion until a chunk of the camp was gripped with a terrible sickness.

Philip pressed him to keep an eye on one man; a boy around his age named Jacob.

“He has scalp short hair, a soft jawline, very petite,” Philip offered in lieu of a helpful description.

“Philip, many of the men here have ‘soft jawlines’. You need to either point him out, or be more specific.”

Philip deliberated for a moment, before confessing, “He is like me. I can show you who he is, but you cannot tell anyone about his body. He needs help, but he won’t have it unless the doctor attending him refuses to send him home.”

Georges nodded, and Philip led him to a tent. Inside was a pale young man, curled up in his cot so that he hung over a stained bucket. Philip shook him awake gently, waiting for him to look up before speaking.

“I found a doctor who won’t tell,” Philip said, not bothering with a greeting. “Please, for the love of God, go to the sick tent.”

The boy coughed in response, turning so he could vomit into the bin. Philip moved a hand to his back, letting him empty his stomach before repeating himself.

“Doctor. Now.”

“Can’t this one just come by to check on me,” Jacob pleaded weakly.

“He has other men to attend to, Jacob.”

“And more supplies, at the tents. If you let me take you, I can actually help. I can’t do anything from here, though,” Georges offered from behind Philip.

Jacob shut his eyes, groaning softly and lurching back over the bucket. He gagged for a moment, dry heaving and giving nothing up. He finally spoke to Georges.

“Just take me up, then. As long as you are the only person to see to me.”

“I promise. Philip, help me carry him.”

Philip scooped Jacob up in his arms, not bothering to let Georges help. He hurried out of the tent and took off for the infirmary, Georges racing after him.

“Philip, slow down,” he called, but Philip did not listen. Georges finally caught up, and he managed to make Philip stop.

“If you run in, they will think he needs immediate care-”

“Which he does.”

“-And I will not be able to attend to him. Give him over.”

Philip hesitated for a moment, before handing over Jacob. Georges cradled him gently, holding him close as he walked the rest of the way to the infirmary. Philip walked besides him, reassuring Jacob the entire way.

Jacob said nothing, only groaning weakly and shivering against Georges’ chest.

* * *

 

Of course, not even Georges could avoid the disease that plagued camp, and fell truly sick for the first time in years. He woke before the sun to a sickness in the pit of his stomach.

“Philip,” he rasped across the tent, voice hoarse.

There was soft breathing, and Georges called for him again. He heard stirring in response.

“Georges?” Philip whispered.

“I think I am dying.”

Georges heard the thin blanket on Philip’s bed hit the ground, and Georges felt Philip at his side and a hand on his forehead.

“You’re burning up,” Philip whispered, turning his hand slightly to press the back of his fingers to his temple.

“I feel like death,” Georges said, barely able to force words out. “I want water.”

Philip’s hand left his head, and Georges could see his shadowy figure in the early morning light as he searched for his canteen. Georges wondered for a moment if Philip would ever allow Georges to use his own canteen while sick. By the time Philip had returned and was pressing the canteen’s rim to his cracking lips, Georges had decided that, no, he probably would not.

“This damned war is going to kill you,” Philip said, voice thick with malice. At what, Georges was not quite sure. “You spend all of your time helping the sick and nobody tries to keep you alive, they take your service for granted.”

“I will be fine, Philip, I just feel sick,” he objected around the water.

“This is the first time you have ever asked me for assistance while ill, Georges. Normally I have to force you to rest.”

“That is very true,” Georges agreed. Even if Philip had been wrong, Georges felt too weak to argue.

Philip sighed, pouring water into his mouth once more before tucking away his canteen.

“I’m going to let the company doctor know about you, Georges.”

“Alright,” Georges said softly, exhausted. Philip pressed a hand to his cheek, cool against his burning flesh, and then hurried to his side of the tent to double his clothing, Georges had forbidden that he wear his bandages until his ribs healed. Philip set out with the promise of, “I will be back,” thrown over his shoulder.

Georges hoped he would be.

* * *

 

Philip refused to leave Gorges’ side the entire time he was ill. Georges admitted to himself that it was a relief; anything that kept Philip out of harm's way was a good thing in his opinion. Even if it meant allowing Philip to force Georges to drink outrageous quantities of water.

One night, Philip pulled Georges partially into his lap as he read aloud from a book. Finally Georges spoke up.

“You don’t have to read that book to me.”

“It’s very good, I think you will like it.”

“I’m sure I would, if it wasn’t my own book.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Philip whispered, “God damn it, Georges, have you written every book I own?”

Georges laughed weakly, watching Philip set the book down. Hands now empty, he moved to caress Georges’ forehead.

Georges titled his head into the touch, lips parting at the familiar feeling. He could almost pretend that it was 1800 again, and that they were in Georges’ sunny bedroom.

“What’s this,” Philip asked, cutting through Georges’ memory. His fingers traced the scar from Georges’ gunshot.

“It’s a scar,” Georges joked weakly.

“I know that. Where from?”

When Georges didn’t answer, Philip continued, fingers drifting down to Georges’ throat and pressing at the scar just above his adam’s apple.

“This one too. Where is it from?”

Georges couldn’t manage to reply, for even if he had a mortal excuse for his scars, the feeling of Philip’s hands on his skin was too pleasant to talk over. Georges realized that Philip was not asking questions either, opting instead to gently trace his fingers over his flesh. Georges looked up at his face, and recognized his eyes sagging with concentration, his throat constricting as he swallowed.

“Philip,” he whispered, but Philip cut him off.

“May I kiss you?”

Georges inhaled, not sure if the dizziness and blurred vision was from sickness or deja vu. Memories of a timid seventeen year old Philip in the woods outside of his home flooded Georges’ mind, Philip’s fingers tugging nervously at his own cravat as he uttered the same phrase. His silence as Georges pulled him close and pressed their lips together, heart singing and cheeks burning.

“Yes.”

Philip breathed, and, hands hesitating at the scar on his throat, leaned in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. He made his way down Georges’ face, cool lips leaving chilling kisses on Georges’ fever stricken skin. His lips reached the corner of Georges’ mouth, and he exhaled softly once more before pressing his lips to Georges’, fingers still resting at the scar he had unintentionally left on Georges forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author does not encourage kissing sick people with deadly diseases, no matter how cute the sick person is or how hot and bothered their scars make you. The author does, however, condone wearing your hair however you damn well please.
> 
> find me on tumblr at grump-ass


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm Back

No more kissing occurred for the five days Georges spent bent over a bucket. Philip kept his hair back when he could, pressing the pads of his fingers against Georges’ temples, applying gentle pressure. When he came back from battles, usually with a bucket of water and a meal, he would chat with Georges, smiling sweetly at him as the man chewed slowly on bread.

 

When Georges finally went several days without emptying his stomach, he attempted to go back to his infirmary tent duties. Unfortunately, Philip wasn’t having it.

 

“You can barely stand up as it is. No.”

 

“Philip, how do you think I use the bathroom when you are out?”

 

“How long does it take you to crawl to the bathroom?”

 

When Georges didn’t offer an answer, Philip laughed to himself, smug. Georges wanted to kiss the smirk off of his freckled face.

 

“Do not make me take that smile, monsieur.” 

 

“Oh? And how do you plan to do that,  _ monsieur _ ,” Philip teased, pointedly hardening his expression.

 

Georges forced himself upright. Grasping Philip’s chin, he angled the young man’s face towards his, watching as Philip swallowed and began to limpen. He turned the young man’s face this way and that, reducing Philip to deep breaths of anticipation and eyes sagging shut with lust before speaking.

 

“May I kiss that smirk away?”

 

“That. Would be sufficient,” Philip rasped.

 

Georges ducked his head down. However, instead of immediately going for Philip’s lips, he pressed a kiss to his shoulder, where his long button down had begun to slip. Philip breathed, a hand clamping on Georges’ shoulder as he made his way up to Philip’s neck.

 

The boy had begun to seat himself in Georges’ lap, legs straddling him. Georges moved his hands to Philip’s thighs, careful to avoid his hips and waist, for leverage. Georges angled his head to kiss the exposed flesh of Philip’s throat. The younger man made a keening noise.

 

“Georges.”

 

Georges shushed him before sucking his way up to Philip’s jaw, careful not to leave marks. It reminded him of when he used to duck behind buildings with Philip to kiss him senseless, forcing himself to keep control until they could go home and mark each other as much as they want, so long as they would be covered by clothing the next day-

 

And now Georges was thinking about happier circumstances, and this was not the time to allow himself to become depressed. 

 

Georges kissed Philip’s chin, drawing out a soft whine. Georges pulled him closer, and pressed a kiss to his lips. Philip gripped his face, holding him still as he pressed insistently. Georges smiled, mouth opening more and more against Philip’s.

 

Which, of course, was when Georges’ body betrayed him and forced him to push Philip away so the could return to the bucket. Philip chuckled softly, regathering his hair.

 

“Like I said, you cannot even stand up on your own. You are staying in bed.”

 

Georges groaned, submitting to Philip’s decision with little complaint, and fell back, slumping against his lover’s chest.

* * *

Georges recovered quickly, as he suspected he would, and soon he was back in the medical tents, helping attempt to cure illnesses and bagging up bodies of men they could not help. Georges’ hand had started to cramp from the letters he wrote home now; for both the men dying in the field and in fluid stained cots.

 

Jacob was worsening. His pallor had gone from pale to almost completely drained of color. He could barely keep down water on good days, and usually he would reject the liquid, along with what food and medicine he had managed to keep down, and sometimes a little blood. Philip couldn’t enter the infirmary, but he grew sick with worry for Jacob. After Georges finished scrubbing down and changed into fresh clothing, Philip would crawl into his cot with him and ask about Jacob’s condition. 

 

“Is he eating? Is he drinking?” 

 

“Yes, he is. But he isn’t keeping anything down.”

 

“Still?”

 

“Still.” Georges confirmed. Philip sighed, resting his head against Georges’ chest.

 

They sat in silence for a moment, and then Philip whispered, “Is he going to survive this?”

 

Georges hesitated, then whispered, “Probably not.”

 

“Is there anything we can do?”

 

“No, I do not believe there is.”

 

Philip shivered despite the warmth of the tent. Georges held him closer.

 

“I’m so sorry, Philip.”

 

Philip shook his head and turned so that his face was buried in Georges’ neck, breath damp against his flesh. Georges reached to his hair and threaded his fingers through the curls as Philip cried softly into the crook of Georges’ neck.

* * *

“Do you wish to visit Jacob?” Georges asked one day.

 

Philip brightened. “Can I? Will they let me visit him?”

 

“Will you try to steal morphine?” Georges joked. Smiled when Philip shook his head in earnest.

 

“You can come with me tomorrow,” Georges said, working on unbuttoning his short.

 

Philip threw himself at Georges, arms slinging around his neck as he kissed him.

 

“Thank you,” Philip whispered.

 

“Of course, Philip.”

 

Philip beamed at his lover, kissing his cheek once and settling in his lap. Georges laughed softly.

 

“Let me change my shirt before you try to sit with me.” 

 

Philip rearranged himself so that Georges could take off his shirt, staring at the expanse of flesh. He frowned when his eyes stopped on the scars on his chest and stomach. 

 

“What are these?” Philip murmured. His fingers reached for the scar on his stomach. 

 

“Uhm,” Georges began, voice shaking when Philip pressed the wound. His hands faltered before placing themselves on Philip’s hips to hold him in place, “I don’t…”

 

“These look like bullet wounds,” Philip murmured. “My father had a scar like this, when he got shot in the war.” 

 

Georges jumped on the chance to talk about Alexander. “Tell me more about him.”

 

“Oh. Well,” Philip hesitated before whispering lowly, “Well, I have two fathers.”

 

Georges’ heart nearly stopped.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes. One of them was like me.” Philip’s fingers had begun circling Georges’ scar, but not with the same curiosity as before. “The other was able to... you know. Help him. Make a family, that is.”

 

“How did they meet each other?”

 

Philip smiled at that, pride on his features. “Well, my pop, the one that gave birth to me, lived as a man,” Philip chirped, “And he worked as a lawyer.”

 

Georges thought back to Alexander.

 

“He saw my father when he got into a bar fight, and he was so blown away that he bought him a drink.”

 

Sounded about Alexander’s speed.

 

“And then my father went home with him, and then they made,” Philip gestured to himself,” This, and my sister, Angie.”

 

“Wow.”

 

“I know! My pop wrote a letter for me before I left. He said he knew I’d make him proud. I’m trying to make my other father proud too.”

 

“I’m sure he is.”

 

Philip’s smile faltered at this. “I… don’t know about that.”

 

“And why’s that?”

 

Philip’s head hung. “Because…. he's dead.” 

 

Oh. “I’m sorry.”

 

“But he died in battle! He wouldn’t back down, and they had to kill him for him to stop.”

 

“Still.” Georges couldn’t encourage Philip’s sense of martyrdom, even if it made his father’s death feel less monumental.

 

“It’s okay, he probably wanted it like that!”

 

“Philip. He’s still gone. You’re allowed to miss him for that.”

 

Philip managed a soft smile.

 

“Thank you, but I’m fine with it. It is good with my soul, and all that.”

 

“It’s okay to be upset.”

 

“....alright.”

 

Philip let his head rest against Georges’ shoulder. The boy breathed softly.

 

“Thank you, for listening. I haven’t been able to tell… well, anybody about my family. It was… nice.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“And I can’t wait to see Jacob.”

 

Georges managed a smile. “I’m glad.”

 

Philip slid out of Georges’ lap. He faltered slightly before working on his own shirt, unbuttoning it. 

 

“I’ll come see you two after my duties,” Philip said, dropping his shirt and turning so his back was to Georges before working on the corset Georges had butchered for him, dropping it to his feet.

 

“Alright.”

 

To Georges’ surprise, Philip turned around at that. He crossed his arms over his chest, but ultimately, the action was new for Philip. 

 

“Philip?”

 

“Can you turn off the lamp?” 

 

Georges complied. In the darkness of the tent, he could hear Philip’s hands fall to his sides. Could hear him exhale shakily before sitting in Georges’ lap again, straddling him. His hands went back to Georges’ stomach, searching for a scar. He found the one at his chest. 

 

“I won’t bother you about this anymore,” Philip promised. “We don’t have to talk about things that make you uncomfortable, I’m sorry.”

 

Of course Philip had been able to tell why Georges changed the subject. Why was he surprised?

 

“It’s alright.” Georges didn’t put his hands on Philip. “I have to admit, I’m lost; why are we not wearing shirts right now.”

 

Philip laughed at that, taking Georges’ hand. 

 

“I just wanted to,” he admitted, “And I figured you wouldn’t judge me. And I… trust you.”

 

Georges knew his eyes were wide.

 

“I do. Because you don’t push me for things, but you listen. And you take care of my friends, and of me. And I feel bad for pushing you about your scars.”

 

“You really didn’t.”

 

“Shush, I’m trying to be collected about this,” Philip reprimanded. He took Georges’ hand and placed it on his own stomach before letting go.

 

“I’ve got scars. Move your fingers- That one, I scratched my stomach on a tree limb and drew blood. Move towards my hip. That one, somebody tried to stab me in a bar fight- I can hear you, Georges, don’t get mad about something that happened years ago. You can go up to my ribs. That soft part is a rib that healed wrong. And someone once scratched my side really hard, but that only scared for a little.”

 

“Why are you showing me these?”

 

“Do you not want me to?”

 

“No, I’m just curious.”

 

“.... I feel like you should know what you’re touching. It feels like a part of me, so I wanted you to know, yknow, what you were feeling, what’s old and new.”

 

“Why would I be feeling-  _ oh _ .” Georges felt himself blush.

 

“Oh my goodness, Georges,” Philip laughed. 

 

“I’m a fool.”

 

“No, you’re adorable.” With that, Philip captured Georges’ lips against his own, and the rest was fuzzy and warm and familiar.

* * *

 

The next day, Georges informed Jacob of Philip’s visit.

 

“Good. I’ve missed that asshole.” Jacob’s voice was soft though, and he looked pleased.

 

“Just get through your check up and you can spend all day with him.”

 

“Jacob Rosenburg?”

 

The voice came from the front of the infirmary. Georges turned towards the voice; where Eirnstein stood, firm.

 

Jacob weakly raised his head towards Eirnstein’s voice, but Georges pressed him back, and stepped into the path running down the tent.

 

“What do you need, sir?”

 

Eirnstein locked eyes with him, and Georges almost began to shrink back. 

 

Instead he repeated himself; “Sir?”

 

“Where’s Rosenburg?”

 

“He’s right here. What do you need, sir?” 

 

Instead of answering, Eirnstein walked to Georges, looking over at Jacob.

 

“Is this him?”

 

“Yes? Sir-”

 

Eirnstein instead pulled Jacob out of the cot by his arm. Jacob began to stumble to his feet, and Georges stepped forward to hold him up, head swimming as he shouted, “What’s happening? He can’t leave his cot-”

 

Eirnstein ignored him, pulling a weak Jacob out of the tent, leaving Georges to follow. As they made their way towards the opposite end of camp, they drew a crowd, what with Jacob’s terrible coughing and Georges’ loud protests.

 

“Stop, please, let him rest.”

 

Eirnstein ignored him, opting to throw Jacob to the ground before him. Georges felt a hand on his shoulder, and when he looked over he saw Philip.

 

“What the hell is happening?”

 

“I have no clue-” Georges’ stomach sunk when he realized what Jacob had been set before, and he prayed Philip wouldn’t notice the long hole before Jacob, who was looking at the space before him with a strange look.

 

“Georges,” the hand on his shoulder tightened, “Georges, is that?”

 

Georges didn’t have the time to respond, because Eirnstein hauled Jacob to his knees and revealed the pistol hanging at his waist. Without another word, Eirnstein aimed, and fired into the back of Jacob’s head. When Jacob did not fall, Eirnstein kicked his still standing corpse into the grave.

 

There was silence for a tense second, and then Philip screamed and Georges grabbed him by his waist as he attempted to throw himself forward, hands out and clawing for Eirnstein, seeming to resemble the growling cougar that his father had told stories about.

 

Georges contained Philip as best as he could, but Eirnstein’s eyes had locked on him, and that only pulled curses from him.

 

“Philip, please,” Georges pleaded.

 

Eirnstein looked to the yowling Philip for a moment, and then raised his pistol so that it was aimed directly at Philip.

 

Georges dragged the furious Philip away at that; he wasn’t going to let him get himself shot again.

 

As they neared their tent, Philip’s screaming had dissolved into shuddering, angry sobs. He beat his fists weakly against Georges’ arms, going limp as he bitterly wept for Jacob.

 

“I know.”

 

“He’s dead,” he wept, “And Eirnstein killed him.”

 

“I know, shush, it’s alright.”

 

It wasn’t alright, but Georges could lie for Philip.

* * *

Jacob was contagious, they said. He was making everybody sick, they said. No need to waste money and supplies and time on a dying orphan that was now worms food.

 

The men didn't need a reason, really. It wasn't like they had the freedom to do anything otherwise.

* * *

 

Hours later, Philip was pacing, still shaking, before hissing, “Someone needs to take a goddamned stand. We can’t let him get away with this.”

 

It was a familiar rant, but Georges chose to ignore this. 

 

“And what do you propose we do?”

 

“I’ll fight him.”

 

“Philip, no.” 

 

“Georges,” he pleaded, but Georges shook his head.

 

“You will only aggravate him. Or get yourself shot,” Georges barely managed a steady voice on that last word, and it showed on Philip’s face that he had noticed. 

 

He persisted. “Not if I have others behind me. They can’t punish us all.”

 

“But they can punish the person who won’t keep quiet.”

 

Philip glowered at that. “I can keep my mouth shut. I just choose not to.”

 

Georges laughed in spite of himself at the man.

 

“Well, have you considered that it may be in your best interest to be silent, amour?” 

 

Philip’s mouth opened, but snapped shut, a flush across his cheeks. Georges felt his own cheeks burn when he realized what had Philip blushing.

 

“Sorry-”

 

“No, I- It’s- Look. He killed my friend. I cannot let that slide.”

 

Georges inhaled shakily at the phrase.

“Philip,” he protested softly, “Please. Please don’t try to fight him.”

 

“I’m not going to fight him. Just…I want a change. That’s why we’re here. That’s why we’re in this battalion. To make a change.”

 

Georges didn’t want him to make a change. He wanted him to not die.

 

“Can’t you make a change in quieter ways? That don’t have the possibility of you dying?”

 

Philip’s mouth snapped shut, eyes hardening.

 

Finally, he whispered, “I’m not a child. You don’t have to protect me; I can take care of myself.”

 

“I know that-”

 

“Then why are you acting like I’m a child who can’t even walk without someone holding his hand? Is it because I’m younger than you? Is it because you see me as a wom-”

 

“No, you know that isn’t it, and don’t you dare try to use that against me.” 

 

Philip was quiet, eyes downcast as if he was ashamed to have almost said what he said. For a moment, Georges was fine letting him feel guilty; he didn’t need to be treated and manipulated like this for just wanting him to be safe. But Philip didn’t know that this wasn’t his first life.

 

As far as Philip knew, he’d never known Georges before the day he walked into his tent five months ago.

 

“I’m sorry,” Philip whispered, “That wasn’t- can we forget about what I said? I’m just upset.”

 

“Don’t say things like that to me, you know exactly what it means to accuse me of seeing you as a woman,” Georges said. The fight had begun to drain from the conversation, though; Georges didn’t want to argue with Philip, especially about this, where anyone could hear them.

 

“I know, I’m sorry,” Philip said, remorseful. He reached for Georges’ hand, a tremor running through him. He was still shaken up, and Georges could tell what he wanted; Philip had not changed much from when he had first met him.

 

Georges took Philip’s hand, pulling him close so the boy could curl against his chest and interlock their fingers. Georges reassured his lover gently, rubbing his back slowly.

 

“It will be alright, amour.” The endearment felt easier now, more natural than before. Philip sniffled, keeping his face hidden.

 

“I want to make him pay,” he whispered, voice full of hate and pain.

 

“Philip.”

  
“I’ll make him pay,” Philip repeated, a promise now, “Sooner or later, he’ll get what’s coming to him.”


	6. Author's Note

Alright Kiddos, There's change in the air.

 

For a long time, a lot of things about watching the world turn have bothered me. Recently (as in, today recently) I have realized that I basically gloss over a period of Georges' life that drastically conflicts with. like. the first fucking chapter. 

 

So now, the list of things I want to fix are as such-

 

  * the first literal fucking chapter
  * beefing up relationships (namely Philip and Georges')
  * taking out some over flowry detail
  * putting in more detail 
  * adding in a whole new part of Georges' life
  * just improving very choppy and rushed work



On the plus side, this means **more new stuff to read of WTWT** , more words, and most importantly, **an improved story**! I hope that when I complete WTWT,  because Philip and Georges' characters are so up for interpretation, I can one day publish it. However, I didn't want to just ignore all the awesome people that read it first in its shittiest state by pushing through the story and not updating it on AO3, ( _and also it would bug the everloving fuck out of me_ ) so I have decided to fix it all up before the next chapter goes out. **Hopefully there will be more content, more dialog, and more foreshadowing for yall very soon!**

 

 _*(I am hoping that the editing will not take long, and if I have Motzart playing and a pal and beta reader of mine yelling at me to step on it, it probably will not)_  

 

While I'm here, I'd like to apologize for not updating as much as I should! I have literally no reason. But, I do like where WTWT is heading, and these edits should also help speed up this next chapter. I would also like to apologize for this upcoming chapter.

I think you know why.

 

Love, Levi (grump-ass)


	7. NOT AN UPDATE, BUT AN AUTHOR'S NOTE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DONT GET DISSAPOINTED ITS OKAY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad News Or Good News??? choice is yours

 

* * *

hey fam, its ya main boi Levi James. And i really hope you arent dissapointed by this not being an update. 

okay, this is actually kind of complicated. Please bear with me!

one; im so glad you've enjoyed wtwt! it means a lot to me, truely! i recieved overwhelming support for it, and it means so much!

two; i am not done with wtwt or the hamilton fandom. however, i realized while writing wtwt that there were other directions i wanted to take it that i could only do if i created my own characters. which brings me to point

three; i decided to write wtwt as an original novel, which i began in november. georges' character is now named giovanni, or just gi for short, and philip's character is named eli. their characters have changed quite a bit, as well as their physicial appearances (although, its important to note, gi and eli are still black, and eli and gi are still transgender.) they have a different plot, and more planned lifetimes. a lot has changed, but its a better story for it.

four; i really considered writing wtwt as a fanfic before continuing. but, as im sure you can already gather, i did not really follow through. its really confusing writing the same story two different ways at a same time, and i couldnt do it. whoops. so, that brings me to point 

five;  **I AM NOT FINISHING WTWT. (as a fanfic)**

and, no, not because i hate hamilton or something. i just really want to write my own content, seperate from hamilton. im doing the same thing with lonely but not alone. i know it may sound dissapointing, but if it is any consolation, you will eventually get the full scoop, and i may even do some sort of give away or advance readers something once i finish it for all the loyal kiddos who stood by me while i wrote. i really love and appreciate yall, and i hope you are all still interested in reading wtwt in its new form. it would mean the world to me.

if you want to get progress or info about plot and characters on wtwt or lonely but not alone, my main tumblr is grump-ass, and my writing tumblr is levijamesn. feel absolutely free to shoot me any messages and, if i can, i'll spill everything. 

thank you so much for still commenting and giving wtwt and lonely but not alone kudos! i hope yall will stay in there with me, because your support means everything.

stay safe, know you are loved, and remember; tomorrow is a new day.

Levi James

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall mean the world to me 


End file.
